


Fortune Favors

by faustin



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Chair Bondage, Cock & Ball Torture, Dacryphilia, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hand Jobs, Hurt No Comfort, Kinktober 2020, Knifeplay, M/M, Omorashi, Unwilling Arousal, Wetting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26750110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faustin/pseuds/faustin
Summary: Erik's captured by a gang of bandits while trying to retrieve what they stole, and soon learns that a bored thief might be the worst kind of all.
Relationships: Erik the Slayer/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29
Collections: Kinktober 2020





	Fortune Favors

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Days 1, 12, and 20 of Kinktober.

He should have listened to his father.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Mralki had said—all but pleaded with him to let the authorities handle it—and Erik had dismissed him, seeing no reason to worry. He’s a grown man, been adventuring on his own for almost a year now, sporting brand-new scars and stories to match. He’d even saved up enough to buy himself a brand-new sword, proper honed steel from a blacksmith in Whiterun. Surely he could retrieve a few stolen horses from a ragged handful of thieves. But the cave is dim and musty and his head throbs in time with his wrists, and he no longer knows if it’s day or night, and his thoughts turn now to his father, and to home. If he lives, he’ll never ignore his father’s advice again. He sends up a silent prayer to Kyne for swiftness and cunning, so he might escape his captors, and promises a portion of the harvest in return. If he only had his sword, or his hands weren’t tied to the chair—

But his hands are tied, and they’ve taken his sword, and the realization of growing discomfort in his bladder reminds him that he’s been in their hideout for what must be hours now. His cheek and jaw still ache from where one of them had caught him with a mailed fist, his ribs tender and back aching from multiple boots; he’ll count himself lucky if that’s all that happens to him before this is through. He’s lucky enough that they didn’t kill him outright, though why that is, he can’t say. He shifts his weight, trying to adjust his posture, but his ankles are tied to the legs of the chair and he can’t move his feet enough to get traction. He squirms again, grunts as the movement jolts his bladder. Moving isn’t helping, so he takes a deep breath and forces himself to look around the cave again, even though he’s seen all there is to see. The hideout is temporary and crudely-constructed, with little more than a table and a set of chairs and no decoration to speak of. A meeting place, he guesses, for passing off stolen goods. Though he’s unsure of the direction, he knows he’s not far from Rorikstead. He’d caught up with the thieves well before the Reach border line. Once he gets loose, he just has to find the road.

Of course, this brings him to his other problem: even if he does free himself, he still has to deal with the guard.

They’d left one of their number to watch him while the rest were out (stealing more horses or discussing his fate, maybe both), seated at the rickety wooden table near the entrance. So far, the man hasn’t said a word. He’s big, pale, with stringy blond hair and a scruffy beard to match, and he whistles as he plays cards against himself, snatches of a tune Erik doesn’t recognize. His armor is battered, leather and hide with mismatched steel bracers, and the sword strapped to his belt looks like it’s seen better days, but Erik knows not to underestimate a man because of his gear. He’s reluctant to draw attention to himself, since the guard has been content so far to ignore him, but the growing need to relieve himself has given him an opportunity he’s not keen on wasting. He has to try. He _has_ to.

The man doesn’t bat an eye when he clears his throat, so he tries it again, a little louder. Nothing. He swallows his frustration and shifts in place again, thinking of home as he gathers his courage.

“Excuse me.” He tries to sound calm—confident, without being demanding. The man stops playing cards. Erik keeps his expression as neutral as he can manage, while still being pleasant. Friendly, even. “I’m not trying to cause any trouble, but… nature calls. Would I be able to see to that?” The man glances at him. Emboldened, he adds, “Away from the chair, so I don’t have to sit in it after. Please.”

The added ‘please’ seems to catch the man’s attention, because he straightens up from the table, twisting in his chair to face Erik. His angular features are at odds with his bulk, and now Erik can see the scar dividing his cheek, thin and pale as his hair. He considers Erik for a moment, and Erik does his best to look like he doesn’t mind being considered, fighting the urge to squirm.

“Got to piss, huh?” Erik nods, cautious, and gets a nod in return. “Not surprised. You’ve been here for a while. ‘Spose Bjarthi decided you might be worth more alive than dead, considering your da’s the innkeeper.”

Erik can’t hide his surprise; it spreads across his face like a spilled drink, and the man chuckles. The sound of it makes Erik’s skin pucker.

“Don’t look so shocked. It’s not hard information to come by.” He stands, and the scrape of his chair against rock makes Erik flinch. He recovers quickly, does his best not to look intimidated, but it’s difficult when the man comes to stand over him, so close that Erik has to tilt his chin back to look him in the eye. “So. You think I should untie you now because you asked all nice. Is that right?”

Erik’s skin is full-on prickling now, hair standing on end, but he forces himself to smile, hoping he looks trustworthy. “You can keep watch, if you like. To make sure I don’t run off.”

The man makes a show of scratching his beard. “And I should do that because…”

“Because.” Erik swallows, wills himself to remain calm. As soon as he gets free, he’s putting the man’s own sword through his neck. “I… I need to go.”

“So?”

He flounders at the question, uncomprehending. What did the bastard mean, _so_? “Well, I… if I’m not able to relieve myself, then…” His face burns.

“Right,” the bandit says when nothing more is forthcoming. “But that’s your problem, isn’t it? Not mine.”

“My gods.” Erik finds his voice at last, disgust allowing him to claw past the murk of his fear. “It’s not enough to tie a man up and steal from his family, then? You’d rob him of his dignity as well?”

The man looks him over, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Erik does his best to keep his legs together, trying to relieve some of the pressure in his bladder, but it’s impossible with his ankles tied like they are. He grits his teeth and glares up at his captor, gets a look in response that sends a chill rolling down his spine. It’s almost playful, but there’s a gleam in the man’s eyes that reminds him of the rabid wolf he’d had to put down last winter when it came staggering into the fields. “You still haven’t told me what’s in it for me.”

Erik opens his mouth, but a jolt of pain lances through his lower belly just then, and all that comes out is a grunt. He’s never not been able to piss when he needs, never considered what it might be like having to hold it for so long, and there’s something uniquely hellish about trying to do so while a stranger watches, _knowing,_ a lopsided smirk on his thin lips. He’s hot all over now, unable to keep himself from squirming, his thoughts skittering about like frightened animals as the sharpening intensity of his need starts to edge out everything else, and the man just keeps on watching. Something about the weight of his eyes sets Erik’s skin to prickling all over again, rippling down his arms and back in waves.

“You really must have to, wriggling around like that.” He says it slow, like he’s savoring each word, and his voice knots Erik’s insides up with a combination of fear, disgust and something else—something hot and shameful, deep in his guts, but it doesn’t matter because he’s desperately trying not to piss himself, and if his captor doesn’t relent, he’s going to lose. “Bet it aches, don’t it?” He leans in, fear crawling up Erik’s throat and seizing in his chest, but worse is the horror as his hand settles on Erik’s belly, right above the base of his cock.

“Stop.” His throat is so tight that it’s barely more than a whisper.

The man presses on him, palm firm. Only for a second, not hard, but it’s enough to make his muscles spasm as he fights against it. A humiliating whimper crawls out of his mouth. Rage flares in response, desperation and fury surging through his veins; he strains against his bonds, snarling and wrenching at the ropes, boots slamming against the rocky ground. The man shakes his head. Suddenly, there’s a knife to Erik’s cheek. He hadn’t even seen the man unsheathe it, but it’s in his hand now, the barest edge of the blade pressing into Erik’s skin. He stills, twitching, and gets a rough pat of approval on his belly, making him groan.

“Careful now.” His captor’s smile is lazy, showing a sliver of crooked teeth as he strokes Erik’s cheek with the blade, trailing the point down to his jaw. Erik can’t breathe, can barely think—he’s sure he’s going to be sick, the way his blood’s pounding in his ears. He keeps his head still, but he can’t stop shifting in place, hips rolling against nothing as he fights not to lose his last shred of control. That big, rough hand still rests on his belly, curved over his bladder, warm even through his clothes. The flat of the blade comes to rest on Erik’s neck, cool against his racing pulse. “Good. Wouldn’t wanna cut you with your blood jumpin’ like that.” He leans in, wine-sour breath hot, mouth almost touching Erik’s ear. “So you’d best keep on holding still.”

He presses again, gently, and Erik makes a noise so wretched that he can scarcely believe it came from his own throat. Heat prickles at his eyes, and he grits his teeth, nails digging into his palms.

“Why are you…” His voice catches, and he swallows, hard. It’s obscenely loud in the silence. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you thought I might be stupid enough to risk untying you,” the man says calmly, rubbing his fingertips across Erik’s belly. It might have been soothing if he hadn’t begun to press them in deeper with each pass, agitating Erik’s need further still. “And I’m stuck watching you until the others get back, so I might as well have a little fun while I’m waiting.”

He flattens his palm, presses a little longer this time, and Erik can feel the tears building, a dull pressure behind his eyes. He can’t stop them any more than he can stop himself from wetting his breeches, helpless against the gentle, insistent pressure of his captor’s hand. Nothing he can do but sit there and breathe and try to hold out, wrists raw and fists aching. His body’s signaling for him to let go, confused and panicked, even as he fights to keep his muscles clenched, and he flinches as the knife leaves his neck, coming to rest on his collarbone. The man rubs his belly, soft circles that end with him pressing down after each pass, and Erik can’t stop the noises that slip free whenever he does—groans and whimpers, ugly sounds. He refuses to open his eyes, won’t look at the man doing this to him, but it doesn’t stop that raspy voice from lingering in his ear.

“It’s pointless to keep fighting it. You’re only hurting yourself.”

Dry lips brush his skin, and it startles him, control slipping; he makes one last grab, but it’s already out of his reach. _No, no, no,_ frantic, too late—the first trickle wets the crotch of his breeches, and he’s done for. Piss spreads hot down his thighs, soaking the cloth through, trickling down to his knees, and when the man chuckles, the resulting shame burns just as hot in his chest.

“That’s a good lad. Let it all out.”

He can’t stop himself. It’s been hours since he rode out that morning, and it seems to go on forever, darkening the clinging fabric, dripping down his calves and into his socks. The only thing more horrible than the fact that he can’t make it stop is the bone-deep satisfaction of a basic need being met at last. Humiliated tears clump his lashes, gather in the corners of his eyes as his head lolls back, teeth clenched; try as he might not to make any noise, he can’t stop the panting or the harsh rise and fall of his chest, the involuntary moan of relief that escapes as his bladder finishes emptying itself. He’s just pissed himself in front of a stranger, a man with a knife who can do whatever he wants. A half-sob gets caught in his throat as he turns his head away. That has to be it. Surely that’s all his captor wanted, some cruel fun at Erik’s expense. Surely there can’t be more. But when the man’s hand does move, it goes down, not away, and Erik lets out a strangled yelp as it grips his cock through his sodden breeches.

“Look at me,” the man says, voice soft, the way the wind is soft before it storms, and Erik does, shaking. Tears trickle down his cheeks, face burning, teeth bared, and his stomach turns as the man leans in and licks at his wet cheekbone, lips lingering on damp skin. “Put on a brave face all you want, boy,” he murmurs, and palms Erik’s limp cock, fingertips curling under his balls and squeezing. “Those pretty tears of yours taste like fear.”

“I’ll kill you,” Erik says, “I swear I’ll kill you,” and he means it as a snarl, but the man gives him another rough squeeze, knife trailing down his chest, and it comes out as a gasp instead. For a second he’s afraid, as the blade lingers on his stomach, and then it slips down to the base of his cock and fear becomes barely-contained terror. The man waits for a moment, watching Erik’s face, then moves it up to tap his belt buckle, metal clinking. It only takes a few strokes to saw through the leather on one side, and then Erik’s belt is pulled out and tossed to the ground, useless. The tip of the knife slides into the fastening of his breeches, cuts the ties with a tug. The man taps the flat of it against his still-clothed cock, making him flinch away.

“You’re not exactly in a position to make threats,” he says, sliding his free hand into Erik’s breeches and freeing him from the confines of wet fabric. “But I can respect you trying to make ‘em anyway.”

He sheathes the knife once more and crouches down so he’s level with Erik’s torso, big hand cradling his balls. His cock is soft, but there’s something about the contrast of warm skin and cool air that makes him stir, the beginnings of an ache pooling in his groin. Erik bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes iron. He won’t allow himself to get hard. He shouldn’t even be _thinking_ about getting hard—and then the man lifts his other hand and flicks his knuckles against Erik’s cock, snapping him right back out of his head. It’s quick, a barely-there blow, but the sting lingers, and Erik sucks in a breath through his teeth. The second blow comes, then the third, and by the sixth he’s trying not to whimper; the eighth draws out a grunt, the ninth sees fresh tears welling up in his eyes. The man rolls his balls in his fingers between flicks, hefting and squeezing gently like he’s testing their weight, and there’s something about it that soothes the sting, a dull pleasure building at the base of the pain. A few more blows in quick succession, enough to make Erik yelp, and the man changes tack, his thumbnail finding the delicate underside of Erik’s cock. He works it, slow strokes interspersed with quick, stinging flicks of his thumb to the head, and his grip tightens little by little, until the pressure on Erik’s balls makes him cry out. The pressure eases, turns back into fondling as the man’s thumb soothes the tip of his cock, but only for a moment. _Flick-flick-flick_ in the same spot each time, a concentrated pain flaring, radiating outward to mingle with the growing pressure on his balls, and Erik shudders, breathing wet and uneven. The man works him over dispassionately, gripping and fondling, stinging and stroking; his expression gives nothing away, his movements as calm and practiced as a hunter skinning a deer. Worse, though, are the glimpses of something bright beyond the pain, something like pleasure but hotter and uglier, tingling all up and down his thighs and behind his balls. Unbelievably, his cock begins to swell.

“No…” He doesn’t mean to say it, but the word comes out as a groan, shaft thickening in the man’s hand as rough fingers tug at his balls. “No, no,” grunting and shaking his head, but his cock has a mind of its own now, growing harder by the second, “no, please— “

But there’s nothing he can do to stop it now, his hips flexing of their own accord as his captor strokes him, cock flushed and leaking slick. Dry fingers play at his foreskin, massaging it around the head, thumb rubbing the tip. Pleasure crackles like shock magicka down his spine. It feels good, and it’s this simple, undeniable fact that undoes him, tears trickling freely down his face as he moans. The man leans up so he can lick the tears from Erik’s beard and cheeks, slow this time, deliberate, tongue lingering at the corner of Erik’s eye. His fist moves slow and deliberate too, massaging, palm hot. Wringing pleasure out of him like so much wet laundry. He’s pathetic, useless, letting himself be treated like this. Crying like a boy in his piss-soaked breeches, wishing he were anywhere else even as his body responds to the manhandling. If anyone finds out that this happened to him—that he’d _enjoyed_ it, in some sick way, no matter that he hadn’t asked for it—

Another white-hot jolt drags him out of his head and back into the chair, cock pulsing in the man’s fist. Whatever he’s doing, whatever rhythm or pace or pressure he’s discovered is making Erik’s eyes roll back in his skull, every muscle in his body straining against his bonds, but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to escape it, and it crashes over him all at once. He is the shore, and waves of pleasure pound his sands relentlessly. The man’s breath is sour in his nose and hot on his face and his hand keeps on working, gripping and stroking and squeezing. Whimpers claw their way out of Erik’s throat in response. There’s nothing he can do. His body no longer accedes to his wishes; it has become little more than a marionette, operated by the hand strumming his cock. His hips buck, stomach muscles clenching as it drags him towards release. It’s too intense to really feel good anymore, but oh does it _feel;_ the man’s hand is an anchor, dragging him into the depths of pure sensation. Drowning him. He comes like a shipwreck, thoughts splintering across the aftershocks, and then there’s nothing but the horrible, dank silence of the cave and the ebbing tide of his own ragged breath. He won’t open his eyes. He won’t. If he doesn’t open them, he’ll never see the evidence of his own weakness, or see his captor’s face again. Time will stop, and he’ll never have to face what comes next.

“Been a while, huh? Almost got me in the eye.” The man chuckles, and some pulling and twisting of Erik’s tunic follows—wiping off the spunk, Erik realizes, numb. This is followed by the man tucking him back into his breeches and rebinding the ties, drawing them closed once more. Cold damp fabric still clings to his legs, sucking at his skin, and a shudder runs through him. He ought to feel horrified, but all that comes is a yawning emptiness, black as the mouth of the cave. A beam of light pierces it in the form of a tug at each ankle, followed by a muffled snap, and suddenly he can move his legs again. One enormous hand hauls him upright as his eyes snap open, and only the man’s iron grip keeps him from pitching forward, muscles stiff and unyielding. “Up. C’mon, up with you. Quick-like now.”

Every muscle in his body screams with the effort, but Erik manages to right himself, wincing as the hand on the back of his neck tightens. “What…” The word scrapes his dry throat, makes him cough. “What is this?”

“Try anything and I’ll gut you like a river betty,” the man says, and drags him towards the mouth of the cave.

Erik has no idea what he’d try, since his hands are still bound and his legs are shaky as a foal’s, but he does his best to keep up, staggering alongside his captor. Beyond the mouth of the cave lies fresh air and pine and running water, things he thought he might never see again, and they emerge to find the moons half-full, light settling silver across the plains. Only the hand bunched in the collar of his padded tunic keeps him upright. The sound of metal against leather makes him freeze before it even fully registers, heart hammering in his throat, and then there’s a tug at his wrists, the rope going slack. A boot plants in the small of his back a split second later, sending him sprawling face-first in the dirt. He rolls onto his back and stares up at a sky full of stars.

“Wouldn’t lie there very long, I was you,” the man says. Sounds follow—the scrape of the knife sliding back into its sheath, the wet smack of spit hitting the dirt. “They’ll be back soon.”

It takes Erik some time to find the words to respond. His mouth doesn’t seem to want to work anymore, lips and tongue dry and throat aching. “Why?” He struggles upright into a sitting position, gaze darting wildly. No other bandits nearby, no one lurking in the dark with weapons brandished. Only the breeze and the birdsong, and the distant rushing of the White River. “Why would you—"

“Bjarthi’s been shorting me on my cut for the last six months.” The man spits again, and it sounds like a curse. Hard to tell in the dark, but Erik thinks he might be smiling. His voice is laced with vicious satisfaction. “The look on his face when he gets back is why.” He pauses, hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. “Won’t be worth nothing if they see you, though, so you’d best get home. Tell your da all about how you escaped from the horse thieves up in the hills. We’ll have moved on by morning.”

Erik swallows, hard, though his mouth is dry as milled wheat.

“Come to Rorikstead again,” he croaks, “and there won’t be enough of you left to hang.”

The man laughs. “Go home, boy,” he says, and turns away. “Before I change my mind.”

Erik has hated before. He hates blood and the bandits that attack Rorikstead every year, hates the way Lemkil treats his daughters and the unsettling, unnatural power of magic and spells, but all of these things pale in the face of the unbridled loathing that rises up in him in that moment. The sheer force of it steals the breath from his lungs, has him halfway rising to his feet before he realizes what he’s doing. The man surely hears him, but he doesn’t pick up his pace, or even look back, and seconds later the mouth of the cave swallows him whole. Erik doesn’t have a weapon, but there are rocks scattered all around, heavy and sharp-edged. The one he spies first is the size of his fist, perfect for caving in the side of a man’s skull. He stares at it and hears his father’s voice again, a plea and a reprimand all in one.

_You’re going to get yourself killed._

The dirt is cool against his knuckles, hard beneath him. He thinks of the stolen horses, and the money it will take to replace them; of the man’s face caving in beneath the weight of Erik’s vengeance, of taking his sword, of lying in wait for the others to return. He thinks of his father’s face, furious and relieved all at once; of the hearth and the breakfast that will surely be warming there, waiting for his return. Of his stolen sword and ruined harvests and the many, many bandits that will come after them, seeking to carve off a piece of his family’s land. Year after year after year.

He picks himself up, limping, and starts down the long, dark road towards home.


End file.
